Moving Forward
by sarapals with past50
Summary: An addition to the final episode for season 14-more Brass. A little GSR, of course, and mostly fluff. A short story.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A follow up to the finale episode in season 14. More Brass...and, of course, GSR. _

**Moving Forward**

…You have to let go at some point in order to move forward. _C.S. Lewis_

**Chapter 1**

The first glimmer of light had began to define the western desert; light that would become strong and brilliant, constantly changing the hues and tones and colors reflected on masses of rock. But now, a pink glow mysteriously gave desert and mountains a shadowy pink glow that preceded sunrise.

Gil Grissom was comfortable; his baggy jeans and loose shirt suited him and the work he was doing. He hitched his backpack on one shoulder, hooked a jug of water with his thumb, and headed toward the path he used every day. Without consciously thinking about it, he knew it would be another unseasonal day—a few months ago, it was too cold, now it was too warm; in between, rain and high temperatures had disrupted the normal life cycle of the particular small butterfly he was studying.

Lifting his eyes, he could make out the burned ridge above the meadow—a late summer fire that had almost destroyed the habitat of the same butterfly. He pushed his arm through the backpack strap and started walking, breathing a deep sigh as he did. He would work until mid-afternoon before he made his way back along this same path. He had chosen this work—lonely work, some said—shunning publicity for his findings yet well-known for his consummate research. He knew he could do this the rest of his life.

Quietly, Sara Sidle walked along the long corridor she knew so well. Over time, the place had taken on the atmosphere of casinos—unable to distinguish night from day even though she knew the sun had been up for a couple of hours.

She had been heading home when D.B. met her in the hallway; when she had asked about Jim Brass and Ellie, she'd heard enough to know she needed to check on her friend.

Jim Brass had occupied this office as long as Sara had been in Vegas, she thought as she stopped at the door. The desk had long ago seen better days—she wasn't sure if it had ever been new—with coffee cup rings and scars that had become part of the patina. Yet, she knew Jim always cleared the stack of files that appeared and grew as a hostile world hammered on the front doors before he left for the day.

Leaning against the doorframe, she said, "Hey, Jim."

Sitting at his desk, his hand around a clear tumbler, Brass appeared to be dosing; his face relaxed, almost peaceful. Sara stepped into the office. "Jim? You okay?" A few seconds passed.

"Oh, hey!" The man shook his head and wiped his eyes, saying "I guess I was day dreaming—or maybe I was asleep. It's—it's been a long day—night."

Easing into the chair in front of his desk, Sara said, "I talked to D.B. He—he said you were still here." She leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk. "Thought you might need company."

A ghost of a smile briefly passed across his face. "Sara—you know you've always been my favorite." He spoke so softly Sara wasn't sure she had understood his words.

"Let's go get breakfast," she suggested.

His head shook so slightly she almost missed it. "I want to check on Ellie—she's had a bad night."

Sara nodded in agreement. She said, "She has—so have you. Eat with me, Jim. We can talk—or not."

The older man chuckled, a sad-sounding deep rumble coming from his chest as he smiled. "You know all about this kind of trouble, don't you, sweet heart."

Again, nodding in agreement, she said, "Let's eat." She stayed in the chair, hesitating a few seconds before she stood. "Come with me—I know you haven't had breakfast."

Shuffling his hand across the desk as if he were looking for something, he finally said, "Okay—where's your old man?"

Softly, Sara laughed, shaking her head as she said, "I'll tell you over breakfast."

Jim stood; the beginnings of a smile on his face. "It's worth going to hear about the old guy—where is he?"

Sara waited for him to reach her side and as they left the office, she said, "You'd be surprised."

His hand touched her back as they walked together. Softly, he asked, "So—all that uproar last year—Hodges spreading rumors when he didn't show up for your birthday—you over that?"

She laughed. Linking her arm with his, Sara said, "You know I'll always love him, Jim."

The chuckle coming from Brass came as real laughter. "I take he's learned what being in the dog house is all about?"

They both laughed.

In the parking garage, he suddenly turned to her, saying, "You don't wear your ring—what's with that?"

Laughing, placing a hand on her hip, tilting her head to one side, she pushed sunglasses over her eyes. She said, "Breakfast—I'll talk and you can listen—then you talk and I'll listen."

"I like Hash House—over on Decatur. They got waffles."

"Waffles are good."

_A/N: This is a short story, 3 to 4 chapters. Thank you for reading. Thank you for reviewing! _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Another chapter-answering some questions in our way, not as tptb would do it! _

**Moving Forward**

**Chapter 2**

Grissom left the path as it circled around the broad meadow, already covered with early wild flowers. He had noticed large animal tracks as he walked the trail but none appeared to head in his direction. A few feet beyond the path, he pulled fencing wires apart and crawled between two strands. The fence was a victory—preventing wild horses from trampling the research field—and well marked with yellow caution tape tied to each post. The tape reminded him of his previous career for only fifteen seconds as he picked up his backpack and carefully made his way to the center of the twenty acre patch of isolated land.

He could walk all day, slow, meticulous steps, his eyes searching for larval host plants, yet, he had discovered, he had a nose for finding the right plants. Methodically, he had marked off small sections and examined each area, carefully marking certain plants. His notes and graphs marked where he had looked on previous days so he walked to a large, flat-topped boulder, placed his back pack and water jug in its shade, removed a small camera, several small purple marker flags, and headed south.

A few minutes later, surrounded by leaf mold, plants growing in soft dirt, he found larvae, certain it was what he was searching for.

"Yes," he breathed, sinking back on his heels. He knew he would be here for a while.

_In Las Vegas_…

The narrow café had its windows covered with large posters of food, announcing breakfast was served twenty-four hours a day. Parking was limited so Jim waited for Sara to pull into a space and then pulled in behind her car.

The revolving door whooshed with cold air as the two entered. Immediately, Sara knew Jim Brass was known at the small restaurant when three waitresses called him by name. One pointed to an empty table and another brought coffee to the table before they got to it.

"Apple juice," Sara said when asked if she wanted coffee.

In the middle of good-natured banter, Jim ordered his "usual" and added that Sara was a vegetarian.

"I'll take a waffle," she said quickly.

The waitress continued her teasing for another minute before leaving them and quickly returned with a tall glass of juice. She asked, "Is this a new girlfriend, Jim?" but did not wait for an answer as an order was called up for her.

"So you come here often?" Sara asked him.

"Not every day, but often enough to know names—and they know mine." He added contents of several blue sugar substitutes to his coffee, stirred, then used the spoon as a pointer. "Okay, Missy, you will not get away from your promise—breakfast and you talk!"

Sara laughed. "I'm fine, Jim—really fine. Gil is fine—we are—we are great."

"Is he home enough? I saw him last summer when he showed up out of the blue—and you took vacation days then." His smile cracked across his face. "Around Christmas, you were looking—well, let's say I noticed a certain look about you."

Sara smiled and nodded. "Christmas was good—great."

Jim's entire face lifted in mock surprise. "Okay—now—where's he keeping himself?"

"We've kept it quiet, Jim—we have reasons. He has a grant with the Nevada Fish and Wildlife to 'investigate' the Mount Charleston blue butterfly—which was placed on the list of endangered species last fall."

Brass made a grumping sound. "Talk about keeping things secret—you haven't said a word! He hasn't called me!"

Sara shook her head and grimaced, saying, "Jim, everyone in the lab knew about that—that horrible debacle with Basderic—and being suspected of murder—and half the lab believes I cheated on him! When I finally got my head together, I decided my personal life needed to be private."

"Well, that was a tough situation, but I knew you and Gil would work things out." He pointed the spoon to her left hand. "What's with the missing ring?"

With her thumb and finger, Sara turned an imaginary ring on her left hand. "I was so angry, Jim—about so much that was happening. And I took it out on Gil—over the phone which is never good." A smile ticked up the corners of her mouth. "We made up."

A quiet laugh came from Jim. "It's true, isn't it?"

Another smile, a bigger grin, "Yeah, making up is the best part."

"But where's the ring?"

Smiling, Sara said, "On my finger when I'm home—but not while I work."

Confusion showed on Jim's face.

Again, Sara smiled and spread her left hand on the table.

At that moment, the waitress returned with plates of food; Sara's waffle and bowl of mixed berries and melon took up a small space. Jim's breakfast filled the rest of the table—a platter of eggs, bacon, and hash was placed before him. Added around the platter was a bowl of fruit, a bowl of oatmeal, a small plate with three biscuits, another bowl of white gravy, and a basket filled with jam, jelly, honey, and butter packets.

With an open mouth, Sara watched in silence as he broke up bacon and stirred pieces into the eggs, buttered two biscuits and poured gravy over them, added honey to the oatmeal, and liberally sprinkled salt over everything except the fruit. When he picked up his fork, he motioned to her food.

"It's good—on Sundays I get the pecan waffle. Now, eat up—while it's hot."

Sara laughed and Jim grinned. Taking her time, she spread whipped butter across the waffle, then picked up a small container of syrup and carefully began to pour a drop into each square of the waffle.

"Keep talking—I'm eating—but I want to hear about the missing ring—why?"

She had about half the waffle covered with drops of syrup. Placing the container near her plate, she said, "Here's the short version: Twice in my life, I have almost been killed." Sara raised her hand and held up one finger. "Natalie—targeted Gil and me because she saw us together. I ended up in the desert, under a car, nearly drowned, almost died from sun stroke—you know that story." Second finger went up. "Ronald Basderic—I don't have to remind you of that one."

Jim was so surprised—or astonished—that he had stopped eating; a fork was in one hand, his knife in the other.

"So—after the embarrassment—the humiliation—of being the object of office gossip—I decided my personal life would be private—very private. As far as anyone connected to a crime knows, I have no personal life! And," she smiled, "Gil and I are fine—we live in the same house, sleep in the same bed—better than we've ever been! He does work more days than I do—but we work that out too."

A soft, deep laugh rumbled from Jim's chest, quickly turning into face-changing joy. He said, "I needed to hear this—I needed to know you are happy. That Gil is happy—that some of us end up being okay—not okay—but fine!" He motioned to her waffle. "Eat!"

They ate and as Sara had far less to eat, she finished first.

Brass noticed. "Tell me more—I want to hear all. What had you so angry—back when—you know, you told the old guy off on the phone."

Shaking her head, Sara said, "Oh, Jim—you know how things escalate. I was trying to get my mother moved to Vegas—it took almost five years with her history to find a place. Work was non-stop. I'd try to get out of town and some crisis would occur—broken water pipe or water heater goes out—or the weather. Then Betty began to have health problems. Hank was sick. And Gil would call when I couldn't talk—I didn't want to call him when I knew he'd be sleeping."

She reached over and forked a strawberry from his uneaten bowl of fruit. "It wasn't his fault—we got so busy with what was going on around us that we forgot to take care of each other." Slowly, she ate the berry before she said, "At some point, both of us realized if we were to move forward, we needed to be together—not living thousands of miles apart!" Smiling, she shrugged her shoulders, saying, "And that's the story, Jim."

He pushed his empty plate away and stacked several bowls on top of it. "Well, you two can keep a secret," he chuckled. "He never showed much interest in females. Yet I knew Gil was interested in you—I think we all did. But then, it became so normal—the two of you—that none of us realized you were," he wagged his hand, "a couple."

"Tell me about Ellie."

Sighing, Jim shook his head slowly. "She's going to plead guilty—forget the 'insane' plea her lawyer is pushing her to do. And I'm paying him—can you beat that? She'll go to prison for a very long time—I'll never live long enough to see her out. But—I think I can live with that. It's—it isn't want I wanted for my daughter but it's what I have."

"I'm sorry, Jim."

"Me, too."

_A/N: Tell us what you think? Not complicated was it? This one will be 4-5 chapters. Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Another chapter! Enjoy-and send us a comment! _

**Moving Forward**

**Chapter 3**

Arriving home, Sara sat in her car for several moments and looked around and smiled. She had found she enjoyed working in the yard—not in the usual way of a groomed landscape, green grass, and blooming flowers—but with xeroscaping using native plants, local groundcovers, small stones and large rocks. The front of the house was minimalist; the back yard was where she had spent hours. Something bloomed nearly year round—clusters of lavender, bunches of tall grasses, bougainvillea, and rock roses had been growing for three years and with nurturing had thrived.

Leaving the car, she spent fifteen minutes walking around the yard removing unwanted weeds before she entered the house.

It did not take long for Sara to shower, wander around her home for a few minutes, and then fall into their comfortably cool bed where she slept the moment her head touched the pillow. She went to sleep happy.

When Gil Grissom pulled his vehicle alongside the one in the driveway, the sun was mid-way through the afternoon sky but at this time of year there would be several hours of daylight. His excitement of his earlier find had been reinforced when he had found two more plants with the same type of larvae. And he could hardly wait to share his excitement. Before entering the house, his hand brushed the wing of a colorful glass garden butterfly—he had lugged the thing home from his last trip and Sara had insisted it belonged at the front door. He smiled; perhaps she was right.

Inside the house, he knew Sara was sleeping—several hours, probably—based on the faint scent of her body wash. A slight fragrance of lavender lingered in their bathroom as he attempted to tip-toe while he undressed. Which meant he dropped a boot on the tile floor. And dropped a bottle while he was in the shower.

He was not surprised when she reached her arms across the bed, sliding warm hands around his neck, pulling them together in the middle of the bed. He bent his head and found her mouth with his—time flowed, washed over him until minutes became indistinguishable. Inhaling a deep breath of her—lavender lingering from her shower, the scent of her skin, the soft feel of the shirt she wore—he exhaled as an audible half growl, half sigh.

Her body was known to him better than his own; the up thrust of each breast, her smooth belly, the rise of her butt from her back, the folds and crevices between. Truly, she was made for him. He wrapped arms around her and looked down into glistening eyes; eyes that reflected the happiness in his own.

Sara's arms and legs wrapped around her husband as silky ropes. She had known for years he was made for her—and together they were a body poem—a term he had used the previous summer. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw the same love in their blueness that had warmed her; that had given her purpose for so long.

They touched, kissed, caressed, and stroked well-known places. He knew where a trail of kisses caused her to gasp; she knew what light strokes with her fingertips did to him.

Suddenly, her climax burst upon her—she gasped, her mouth dropped open in surprise—in astonished pleasure. Her hips lifted as her back arched to bring his thrusts deeper. In seconds, Grissom brought his cheek to her shoulder and gave himself over to the exhilaration of being a man. His mind reeled; for a moment he was in the sun, blinded with brightness, and then drowning in a whirling sea before rising, buoyant on a rolling tide.

For a while, they lay together, listening as each recovered their breath; Sara stroked his back slowly and felt the dampness. She kissed his shoulder to taste its saltiness.

A few more minutes passed in satisfied quietness before Grissom groaned. Reluctantly, he eased himself out of her, rolled to one side, and gathered her against him.

"I really had some exciting news to tell when I came in," he whispered, his lips against her ear.

A soft giggle came to his ears, a whisper saying, "Do tell."

_Across the city_:

Jim Brass seldom slept well; he would spend hours sitting alone inside his house. Sometimes he fell asleep in his chair, his head on his chest, and woke hours later feeling he had achieved victory by sleeping for four or five hours. Today, it took him longer to decide to sleep. He found himself taking inventory, mentally, of his job, his life in Vegas.

Starting with the piano he seldom played, he picked a simple melody on dusty keys before moving to bookshelves across the room. He poked through books and a box of photographs, the general detritus of bills he paid by bank draft and magazines he rarely read. When he came to Las Vegas, he had thought of the place as temporary—he would move on in a few years. But he had not and now it looked like the home of a lonely man with no hobbies or interests other than work.

The photographs kept his attention; photographs of co-workers, of Ellie, with the girl appearing to say "why must you take my picture?", one of his father in a uniform, another of his mother in a pretty print dress. Mixed in with photos were postcards from places he had never been—Sara had sent him a dozen cards from places she had traveled. Closing the box, he realized he had received more correspondence from Sara than he had ever gotten from his daughter.

Slowly, he moved to his bedroom, closed the curtains for darkness and lay down wearing his clothes.

When Brass slept in bed, he kept his holstered revolver on his nightstand. In his chair, he kept the gun equally close by, usually the second shelf of the small table where he kept the remote for his television, a glass, and his phone on top.

It was a foolish way to live, he used to tell himself, the mark of paranoid or someone who had never addressed his fears. But not lately, not in a few years—he knew people who kept a gun underneath their pillow—so his gun near him wasn't so much about fear or paranoia, but about the state of the world he lived in.

As he lay in bed, still as a stone, he tried to remember what had gone wrong—wanting to blame himself because he had been the one to leave his daughter. Yet, he knew there was no answer. Ellie had taken piano lessons and dance lessons—learned to ride horses one summer—all the trappings of what little girls wanted.

Raising an arm to cover his eyes, he thought about Sara Sidle—a child at the mercy of courts, of foster homes, of parents who stayed together until one killed the other. Too often, he had seen the results of that kind of past. He smiled; Sara had overcome tremendous odds to be the loving, smart person he loved as a daughter.

His daughter—Ellie—he had loved her since birth, but he could not like her because her lifestyle revolted him—a monster with her imperious, restless, arrogant appetites for everything degrading. She would go to prison, promises made during their long talk would be forgotten; he had no doubt that Ellie would try again to kill herself—or provoke and incite death from another.

Rolling over, he reached for a photograph that had always been at his bedside—taken on a happy day with a little girl, smiling at the camera, eyes on her dad. Who was not her dad—not her biological father—a secret he thought he had kept from Ellie until today. She had known for years. There was another photograph on the table; he reached for it, placing the one of Ellie face down. The second one was of a group, standing in a line, hugging and smiling as he had pressed the button on a new camera that had belonged to Sara.

In this picture, he saw his friends, the people who had been with him nearly every day for fifteen years, two of them for longer. His finger touched the face of one who had left them too soon, sadly remembering the events around the death of Warrick Brown. Then, he smiled at beautiful Catherine, a much younger Greg and Nick, and grinned even more at Gil and Sara. Catherine had called it their "coming out party" and it had been a joyous event.

He knew there was no turning back the clock; even if he could, where would he stop it? He felt he owed Ellie a debt and he would stand by her, visit her on days she could have visitors. He would talk with the district attorney's office, requesting she be housed in the smaller prison used for special inmates—those who had relatives in law enforcement or other connections with lawyers and judges. Ellie was not the first child of career officers of the law to end up in prison. Even with that, he doubted she would make it a year.

Sighing, he returned the photo, upright, to the table and rolled onto his back. He had plans to make, deciding in a few minutes that he would not let Ellie run or ruin his life. There was much for him to do. He punched a pillow underneath his head, unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt and closed his eyes.

In minutes, he was asleep—exhaustion played a role, but he was also working on a decision and the progress he had made pushed him into a more relaxed state than he would have thought possible a few hours earlier. He had always known the day would come, perhaps not in this way, but it was time. He rolled over, punched his pillow again, and closed his eyes.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Now, take a few seconds and leave a comment! Probably one more chapter to this one! _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you for reading!_

**Moving Forward**

**Chapter 4**

_We should all be thankful for those who rekindle the inner spirit…Albert Schweitzer_

He woke as in a dream, drifting for a moment in an unfamiliar place, yet knowing it did not matter because there was nothing to fear. His mind came to life very slowly remembering the previous day—the experience of something new and different. Opening his eyes, he watched day break as a sliver of sky changed from a pale blue glow to bright sunlight. He smelled the wet fragrance left by nightly rain and heard the vociferous sounds that were part of this place.

For a while, he remained in bed—a narrow yet comfortable one, made up with sheets that still smelled slightly of sunshine and fresh air, mosquito netting hanging from ceiling to floor. A quick glance—the other bed was empty—he would not have to be quiet this morning, he thought, so he punched his pillow, folded an arm under it, and thought of the past, quickly, with a spasm of grief that would always be with him, yet embraced and surrounded by contentment for the present.

His friends had remained by his side; he had never thought otherwise but they went beyond the expected. On the first day he could visit Ellie, Nick Stokes had arrived, driven him to the prison, and stayed with him long after they had gotten back to Vegas. Then it was Greg and after him, Sara, and then Gil—each one driving, letting him talk about Ellie or about nothing important. He had not made one trip alone.

Six months into Ellie's imprisonment, he had gotten the message he knew would come. Not a phone call, but an early morning knock on his door, opening it to find Gil and Sara. He knew what they had come to tell him—and he had not asked how or why because he had known all along that Ellie would choose the time of her death.

At the graveside service—surprised when so many people attended—he caught sight of a familiar face that appeared over the shoulder of one of the officers and quickly disappeared. By the time the crowd had dwindled, she found him. Annie Kramer.

Always sophisticated in a simple, stylish manner, she wore a black dress with silver jewelry and he could think of no one he could have been happier to see on that day. Later, realizing the two were talking as friends rather than acquaintances, he had been surprised to learn Annie and Sara had been in contact for months.

And Annie had stayed. For a week, she brought him coffee each morning, walked with him each day, ate lunch with him at favorite places, and fussed as she straightened his house—dusting and sweeping cobwebs from the corners of rooms just as she removed the tangled confusion from his mind.

One evening while sitting in an armchair across from him, she announced that she would be leaving in a few days. Suddenly, she asked, "Am I as you remember?"

He chuckled—because she had caused him to laugh about other things during the week—and said, "Yes and no."

Annie's eyebrows shot upward.

Another chuckle, as he continued, "A woman of the world now, I think."

She nodded, knowing truth was in the years since they had been together. She stood, loosened her hair, and slowly unfastened three buttons on her lime green shirt.

Brass was stunned—too good to be true, he thought. When her arms reached out to him, his did the same and when her eyes closed he felt like a man suddenly and unexpectedly warmed by sunlight. He actually, for an instant, felt her mouth smile with pleasure. After that, everything happened quickly and in another split second, he thought this was a dangerous place to go, but they went there anyway.

Surprising to both, there was no danger; they were happy, content with each other, and in the days that followed—because Annie did not leave as quickly as she had suggested—they discovered a new kind of happiness.

By the time he had maxed out bereavement leave, he had decided to retire.

Retirement is what had gotten him here; he shook his head, smiled, and sat up, checking the floor before placing his feet on it.

He was giving his boot a shake when there was a rapid tattoo outside the brightly colored door. A familiar voice, laughing, said, "Hey in there—are you still asleep?"

If Annie had saved his mind and body, given him reasons for living another day, Sara Sidle had saved his spirit, infused in him a new frame of mind. And together, the two women had gotten him to this place—he wasn't sure if he was following them or if all of them were under the magic spell of the charismatic Gil Grissom, leading them to the edge of the world—or at least the edge of Panama.

Brass answered, "I'm up, awake, and almost dressed—where's Annie?" He pushed the door open—there was no lock—and finished buttoning his shirt. He grinned at her appearance—Sara's lips were a bit swollen, her face glowed, not because of sunburn, and she had the marks of beard burn on her neck.

As he looked at her, he tried to think how the two beds in the tent-rooms, bolted to the wood floor, had been moved together—then realized they probably hadn't—and chuckled, realizing he could learn more than bug science from his old friend.

Sara handed him a bottle of bug repellent, saying, "Don't forget this."

Five hundred years before their arrival, a small group of men had traipsed through this part of the world in search of gold, silver, and who knows what else. Jim Brass was no Balboa, but he was fit and adventurous enough to trudge up a small mountain, more a sharp hill, to see—as the Spanish before him—to see what he could see.

They were all grateful the national park service had maintained a rough trail, remote, crossed with massive tree roots, closed in by thick underbrush, and towered over by a canopy of cuipo trees. A local guide had been with them since their arrival by a small airplane the day before and would lead them to the summit of the mountain.

The walk was slow because the four chose to watch howler monkeys flying above them; they paused to watch a line of ants—leaf cutters, according to Grissom—carrying sails of purple flower petals across the path, disappearing into the dense growth. And they laughed at the guide's story of wild pigs climbing trees.

A small group passed them, young and old, hurrying from one scenic sight to another; a group of bird watchers were headed into the lowlands, but the two couples had no need to hurry. Punta Patino, Panama's largest nature preserve was their destination. At the park's lodge were frontier police, carrying rifles along with water bottles, because the area, far to the south, had become a refuge for guerrillas from another country.

But everyone they met was hospitable, spontaneously reporting what was ahead of them, how much farther they had to go until the trail 'officially' ended. Wildlife was spectacular—tracks of pumas or ocelots or jaguar had been thoughtfully marked and preserved for other hikers to see. The variety of birds was breath-taking. Around a pool of water, the ground seemed to erupt in butterfly confetti as they approached.

Then, quickly, the four clambered up a rise and saw, far below, a wide, empty beach and a vast expanse of water—the Pacific Ocean—as far as the eye could see. The trail ended with a pile of stones, plain and white, as a marker for the summit.

From a cloudless sky, the sun warmed their shoulders. The landscape below them stretched from an emerald green primeval forest to the shining silvery blue of the ocean water. The air was filled with the smell of flowers and damp earth.

Two or three minutes passed in silence before Sara said, "Wow!"

"Yeah," Grissom whispered.

With a pleasant grump, Brass said, "I feel like Francis Drake!"

Sara tried to stifle a giggle; Grissom did not attempt to hide his chuckle. Annie placed her arm around Jim's shoulder.

"Jim," she said, "I don't think Francis Drake was ever here."

Brass laughed, saying, "Well, if he had, I know how he felt—no, I feel better than Drake would've felt!" He leaned toward, tilting his head under the brim of Annie's hat and kissed her. In his peripheral vision, he could see Gil kissing Sara. Or was she kissing him?

Moving forward, he thought. No longer looking at the bad side of human nature, he was at peace.

_A/N: This story could have another chapter or go on for many more...but this ending seems appropriate for our story about Jim Brass. Thank you for reading. Many thanks to those of you who take the time to write words of encouragement, comments, and reviews. We appreciate your support of our writing. Maybe there is another story waiting._


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